


Crocadóir

by SaxSpieler



Series: Gentili e Sculacciati [9]
Category: Runescape
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Chronic Pain, Drug Use, Explicit Language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Torture, Mobster AU, Needles, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Oreb is more than a bit racist, Poor Gun Handling, Suicidal Thoughts, and plenty of Finleyisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-21
Updated: 2018-02-21
Packaged: 2019-03-21 23:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13751907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaxSpieler/pseuds/SaxSpieler
Summary: The Shark, a displaced and volatile World Guardian, comes into the employ of the Raven King after a tumultuous first meeting.





	Crocadóir

The jingle of hanging bells turned into a strident clang as the heavy oak door was flung open with force enough to leave a dent in the adjacent wall. 

Patrons, most of them old, grizzled, and nursing pints of thick, foamy stout, turned slowly to the doorway, their eyes searching for the one who had broken their reverie.

The culprit was obvious.

A mass of tattooed muscles, covered by a set of crumpled slacks and a damp, stained blouse, suspenders holding the mess together. 

A hand wrapped in bloodied bandages, fingers curled almost painfully around an empty bottle. 

A mane of thick, uneven hair, fraying braids and a lopsided bowler just barely taming it.

Eyes that flashed in the darkened pub like a hunter prowling on the opposite side of a fire.

No one dared drink, move, or even breathe more than they had to.

_The Shark was home._

After a pause, the frigid air from outside making her breath starkly visible even against the fug of smoke from smoldering pipes, she stalked inside, dropping the empty bottle on a table and heading for the bar.

The bartender, a short, stocky, and shifty man currently going by the name of Malone, swirled his cleaning cloth once more across the bar top before he was pushed unceremoniously out of the way by the approaching woman. Reaching up, she snatched a bottle of whisky from the rack behind the bar and, unable to work the spout off in a timely manner, smashed its neck against the nearby pillar.

Glass shattered, leaving a jagged-edged yet open bottle, and she raised it to her lips, taking a long, grateful swig.

Blood joined whisky, the glass having knifed through her lower lip, but she seemed to pay no mind. 

She was covered in blood anyway.

Only a fraction of it was hers.

Gasping for air, she wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, the bandages there coming away smeared with bright red.

Malone shouted some admonishment for wasting whisky and making a mess. She didn’t seem to hear it, however, yanking a creased bill from her pocket and tossing it onto the bar top before hobbling upstairs to her room.

“Fuckin’ bitch,” he mumbled, stalking to the back room for a new cloth.

***

The bed beckoned her, sagging and supportless. 

Yet, she set the whisky bottle on the bedside table and headed to the washroom, stripping the protective bandages and ruined blouse from her hands and torso along the way.

Washing up was a chore, a cascade of rotten memories that made her want to scrub her skin raw. The scars, the literal cattle brand on her chest, the forcibly applied tattoos from worse days. She wanted them all gone, yet cleaning off the salt and blood and bandaging a shallow knife wound in her already mauled and healed abdomen was all she could manage before the pain became too much for her to remain standing.

Still damp, she stumbled to the bed, carefully laying herself down. 

Her strained groan was echoed by the bedsprings.

The Serenity had worn off.

_Again._

Her hand casted around for her whisky, finding it as everything below her lumbar vertebrae began to burn. Her cries stifled by the bottle, she drank deeply until the most she could feel was a hazy ache.

Satisfied that this was as comfortable as she would get for the rest of the night, she fished an envelope out from her pocket and recounted the bills inside.

_Not enough._

Not _nearly_ enough for more.

The street price of Serenity was skyrocketing - the amount of cash she had made from tonight’s job was barely enough to buy a single dose.

It would be back to work tomorrow for her, pain be damned.

***

Not half an hour after The Shark had returned, the door to the Kelpie’s Den swung open again, far gentler this time.

Once again, the patrons looked in the direction of the disturbance - though, instead of a roughed up, blood-splattered woman, there stood a dark, stately figure, backlit by the streetlamp outside.

The figure - the man - entered the pub, the only sounds in his wake the ticking of his jeweled cane against the wood floor and the shifting of his feather-edged cloak against itself.

He was an odd sight. 

Maybe it was his attire, the rich, dark leather trimmed in silver with crimson silk rippling beneath a stark contrast to the rough cotton and wool that the rest of the pup’s occupants wore.

Maybe it was the feathers, not just edging his cloak, but comprising his collar and strung from his cufflinks.

Maybe it was the way he moved, gliding effortlessly across the floor as if not constrained by the bounds of reality.

He was an odd, foreign sight. A stranger to An Rellghan. Perhaps to stranger to all but the loftiest neighborhoods of San Tristen.

Yet, the set of his eyes was strikingly familiar, and they flashed with their own internal light.

He stopped in front of the bartender, placing a hand accented by sharp, silvered claws on the bar top. 

“Ah, what can I get ye, sir?” Malone asked, flicking the last stray bit of broken glass into the waste bin.

“Nothing,” the stranger hummed, voice almost that of a choir rather than that of an individual. “Nothing from _you,_ anyway.”

Malone scowled, hands balling into fists.

“Well, we’re a _pub,_ aye? We serve drink, so drink somethin’ or get the hell out.”

The stranger paused, eyes sparking venomously, and all sound in the pub dampened to a mere whisper. There was a tense moment, his fingers digging into the bar top before he seemed to relax, breaking into an easy smile.

“Well then,” he said crisply, his voice bringing the din of the pub back to life along with it. “I should very much enjoy a nip of whatever _The Shark_ had earlier this evening.”

Malone scoffed, pointing to the empty spot on the liquor rack. 

“A young scotch, not very good t’ be honest,” he said, not taking his eyes off of the feathered stranger. “Also we’re out, aye? Ye’ll have t’ get over to another pub-”

“No one person, not even you-” the stranger gestured to the rest of the pub- _“Irish..._ can polish off a full bottle of poorly distilled pus that you call ‘whisky’ that quickly. I’m sure The Shark has some left.”

There was an audible hiss among the rest of the pub, chairs creaking as patrons turned to face the stranger threateningly. 

“Nah,” Malone nearly snarled, knuckles cracking, “I’m gonna have to ask ye to _fuck off._ Shark’s already fuckin’ ‘bout too much with them damn Valkyrie bints - takes away from her time in my ring, aye? She’s my best boxer and damned if I’m gonna let a swishy bawgargler like yerself talk her into somethin’-”

The stranger lunged over the bar, reaching a clawed hand out toward Malone. Flicking his wrist around and curling his fingers in a beckoning gesture, he spat words too quiet to comprehend. Malone’s normally brown eyes faded to a sickly blue-white, rolling back into his skull, and he stumbled forward into the bar top, the stranger’s other hand curling around his throat.

“Where is she?”

The claws dug in.

Eyes flashed.

“Ah...she’s upstairs,” Malone gasped. “Last room on the right.”

The stranger smiled and nodded, the feathers of his collar rustling at the motion. Releasing Malone’s neck, he stepped back and headed for the staircase.

“Thank you for your cooperation, good sir,” he said as he began to almost glide up each step.

Rubbing his neck, hand coming away with specks of blood where the stranger’s claws had pricked him, the Malone blinked rapidly, coming out of his trance.

He held up a hand to stall the pub-goers from following the stranger.

“Aye, he can _try_ talkin’ Bone-Breaker out of a nip,” he mumbled to them. “But, that bastard’s more likely to end up leavin’ the room minus a tooth or two. Let’s let her deal with this bird, aye?”

***

The Shark stared at the ceiling, memorizing the wood grain patterns in the beams there.

_If I have to look at that god damned pine whorl that looks like a wonked sideways stiffie for one more glackit minute I’m going to blow a damn hole in it and not give half a burned spliff if I get pissed on by the sky afterwards._

Her hand found the holstered revolver belted to her thigh, and she raised it to the ceiling, aiming where the offending whorl was.

_A waste of bullets._

The gun fell to the mattress beside her, and she draped her arm across her forehead, trying to mentally stave off the pain returning to her spine. As if in mercy, her head spun and her hand went to the iron and brass pendant around her neck.

A stylized ‘V,’ one arm an intricate dragon’s head. 

A symbol of her new fealty.

For a moment, the carved mahogany crest bearing that very symbol carved into the back of the boss’ throne flashed gilded thread on crimson, a banner waving in a frigid, salty breeze. 

In these hallucinations - _or were they memories?_ \- she nearly always stood on a slippery dock of worn wood, dressed not in slacks, a blouse, and suspenders, but in furs and sturdy metal plates, her pistol exchanged for an axe. The sea before her was vast and frozen, the sky above was a faded blue-grey, and the town behind her was familiar, yet she couldn’t remember the name. Very few times did she stand on the edge of a different precipice - one over a gaping, endless pit that was anything but empty, she somehow knew. In these hallucinations, the pain in her back and the paradoxical phantom lack of feeling in her legs and left arm made sense. It felt both right _and_ wrong, both senses battling between her ears and threatening to turn her already drug and alcohol-addled mind to mush.

There were times - frequent times - when she wanted that to happen. At least _then_ maybe she wouldn't be cognizant enough to feel pain, anger, or anything else in particular.

Grumbling, she lifted her arm from her face and cuffed the side of her head.

“Get out. Just get out of my head-”

The bottle found her lips again, and whisky flowed.

As she finally polished off the bottle, she swore she heard a gentle clicking, followed by the characteristic creak of door hinges.

_Her door._

Ignoring the pain from her back, she sat upright, flipping the bottle so she held it by its neck.

“Gonna give ye one chance to shut the damn door before I crack yer skull, whoever ye are!” she bellowed in _Gaeilge,_ raising the bottle.

The door stopped creaking for a moment before it was pushed open in full.

The Shark didn’t even hesitate. 

She drew back and, with a yawp, flung the bottle at the shadowed figure standing in the open doorway.

It was as if time slowed.

Or, perhaps, the figure was just very, very fast.

A taloned hand shot out and effortlessly plucked the bottle from the air, a light chuckle ringing with the glass as it was struck by the gleaming metal finger adornments.

“Now, now. That’s no way to greet a bedside visitor, is it?” the figure asked, sliding forward into the lamplight.

Nose wrinkling at the sheer opulence of the figure’s wardrobe, the Shark squinted at him, hand now curled around her revolver.

“I don’t care who ye are, but ye better turn yer swishy arse right around and march yerself back to the Gray Ring so Sliske can polish yer boots with his towel jelly, aye?”

She lifted the revolver, taking aim at the man’s chest and clicking the hammer back.

For a moment, the man squinted back, trimmed gray-white eyebrows knitting together. His mouth opened, then closed, and he lifted a hand, flicking his talon-decked fingers through the air as if brushing away an insect.

“I believe you're mistaken, dear,” he said, striding forward. The Shark jostled her revolver, finger slipping into the trigger guard, but he seemed undeterred. “I keep no company with that-” he sighed, disgust wrinkling his face momentarily- _“snake_ who fancies himself a puppeteer mastermind. I represent myself, you see.”

He took a moment to bow slightly, the hand he’d waved now placed on his chest. The lamplight glinted angrily off his silver talons, and the Shark gritted her teeth - they were likely as sharp as they were intricate.

“My name is Oreb. Though, in San Tristen, I’m known as the _Raven King.”_

The Shark blinked. 

Once.

Twice.

She shrugged, finger tightening around the trigger.

“Never heard of ye.”

There was a _click._

A _boom._

Burning powder sprayed. 

But then-

_-nothing._

No cry of pain.

No _whumph_ of a body falling to the floor.

Nothing but the slight _snick_ of metal on metal.

Her stomach dropped, a cold sweat breaking on her forehead as she saw the bullet, still smoking, pinned between two of Oreb’s talons. 

_HOW?_

“I’ll tell you this now, _Finley Bannbreker,”_ Oreb growled. “Never d-”

_“BACK OFF!”_

The Shark - Finley - clamored off the bed, cocking and aiming the gun again, this time at Oreb’s head.

“SHUT YER TRAP AND _BACK OFF!”_

Oreb glared, smoke-like wisps of sickly blue light trailing up from the corners of his eyes.

_“Don’t interrupt me.”_

The metal under Finley’s hand sparked suddenly, and she dropped the gun with a yelp. 

_“GAH, SHIT!”_

With a swish of his cloak, Oreb flew forward.

His other hand shot towards her, the fingers - though they lacked talons - thrown into sharp, claw-like relief by the shadows. 

Fear dulled the stabs of fire from her spine.

Anger set her feet, drilling her fist towards his oncoming face.

It never connected.

His cloak - wings of oily, all-encompassing black - closed around them both, and she was thrown off her feet.

Her back met a door frame, the jutting wood drilling into her spine.

Howling, she crumpled, seizing and shaking.

Every nerve in her body _burned,_ set alight by the impact.

“You poor thing,” she heard Oreb coo from above. “A slave to your pain, and to those foul crystals you clamor for.”

She felt his hand clasp and straighten her arm - with a jittery roar, she tried to tear herself from his grip, but her muscles were wound tight with agony and wouldn't respond.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, shushing her as she tried again to pull back. _“Just relax.”_

Something pricked the crook of her elbow. She felt it twitch nauseatingly in her flesh for a moment as she jerked about.

And then, it all stopped.

Her screams.

Her shaking.

Her _pain._

Something cool flowed through her veins, erasing every shred of discomfort and replacing it with something new.

Something _energizing._

Oreb sat her upright after a moment, drawing back and stretching back to his full height.

“What,” Finley wheezed, scrambling to her feet and worming herself out from between Oreb and the wall. “What was _that?”_

Frantic, she checked where she had felt something prick her. Sure enough, next to the embossed vein in the crook of her elbow, was the characteristic dot of a needle stick, red and new among its older, healed companions.

“The bleeding hell did you stick me with???” she roared, hand curling back into a fist. 

Oreb held up a hand in response. 

At first, she thought it was to stop any advance she might make, but, oddly, his hand was held the opposite way, with its back facing her. Then, he closed his hand, leaving only his index finger extended.

“Flashin’ the finger that ye clean yer colon with doesn’t answer my damn question, Birdman,” she snarled. 

“Oh, but it does,” Oreb replied easily, though Finley had caught the slight twitch of his brow at her comment. “Look closer.”

She squinted.

Then, she saw it.

Nestled within the index claw, which she now noticed was slightly longer and more intricate than the rest, was a syringe, its barrel now empty.

Finley clenched her jaw, teeth grinding together.

“For fuck’s sake! Alright, ye got a mosquito’s arse in yer finger, that’s great! _WHAT THE FUCK WAS IN IT???”_

Flickers of light danced across Oreb’s face, bright blue-green reflecting off his dark, ashy skin.

He _smiled._

“A painkiller, if it wasn’t obvious enough.” He brushed his cloak aside to reveal a belt pouch, flipping it open and extracting more syringe barrels. All of them were filled with the same, slightly fluorescent pearly substance that seemed to undulate within its confinement of its own accord. “A new painkiller. Far more potent, effective, and lasting than the pitiful solutions of Serenity that you’ve been relying on for the past three years.”

Still grinding her teeth, Finley couldn’t help but feel a pang of doubt at that statement.

Yes, her pain had vanished instantly - whatever that substance was, it was indeed a killer of pain.

However, it was far more than that.

_A stimulant?_

Not entirely - she felt energized, but not twitchy or restless like after a good pot of strong coffee.

It was more the feeling of…

...of eating after a long fast.

Of being _nourished._

And, like water in a desert, damn if she didn’t want more.

She chose her next words carefully.

“Yer representing yerself, is that right? Got a job that needs doing? And yer offering-” she gestured to the vials in his hand- “that as payment, am I thinkin’ straight?”

“As a _deposit,_ Finley,” Oreb corrected. “A show of good faith from me to you. A gift, if you will. An end to your pain in return for a little light work from time to time. More...monetary payment shall be provided as well, of course.”

Finley blinked, swallowing the saliva that had begun to gather in her mouth at the sight of those vials and the ghostly substance within.

A strange patron materializing out of the fog with a miracle pain cure that he seemed all too willing to just toss at her feet for so little in return? It was almost _too_ good to be true. 

And yet...

“Aye. What’s the job?” she asked, looking Oreb in the eyes.

His smile grew, finally splitting to reveal a row of pristine, gleaming teeth.

“I will call on you from time to time for assistance. Nothing you’re not used to - a bit of roughing up here, protection services there - and nothing, I promise, that will put you at odds with your little family.”

In an instant he was in front of her, the Valkyrie medallion held between his hands. Smoke curled from in between his fingers, and, when he let the pendant fall back into place upon Finley’s chest, she noticed that the bullet he caught was now welded firmly to the metal, stuck between the arms of the stylized ‘V.’

“Oi! What was that for?!?” she yawped, pushing him away.

“I don’t have a telephone,” he said flatly, obliging her shove and backing up. “I need some way to track you down when I have work for you. Or, when you need another dose Animus.”

With that, he turned, feathers rustling, and made his way to the door.

“Oh, I must ask you to keep hush regarding our arrangement. To _all_ parties,” he called over his shoulder. “Until next time, 'Shark.'”

Then, he was gone, nothing but a stray feather and a strangely re-filled bottle of whisky on the side table left in his wake.

Finley waited a full minute, staring at the whisky, before clamoring to the window and throwing it open. 

“You might not have a phone, but I know someone who does,” she muttered, hoisting herself out the window and sliding down the roof to the alleyway below.

***

The phone rang only once.

_“Yes?”_

Finley couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief at the sound of that almost bored, gruff voice on the other end of the line.

“Wise, it’s me,” she said, throwing another glance outside the phone booth to make sure she was still alone. 

_“Finley. Something’s wrong.”_ It wasn’t a question. Wise knew her voice like the very beard on his chin. _“What is it?”_

“I don’t know. Look, I-" she ground her teeth- "I need you to do a blood test.”

_“What?”_

“A blood test. Someone came by tonight, and-”

_“Damnit, I keep telling you to use protection-”_

“Nonna that happened!” Finley hissed. “I got shot up with something, right? The bastard did it before I could get away, and-”

She stopped herself before she could say any more about the deal that had been struck. _No need to worry Wise further,_ she decided.

_“Finley. Stay in your room, I’m coming over.”_

“Ah-” she glanced around again- “too late.”

There was a sound of a buzzer in the background, followed by heavy footsteps as Wise nearly snarled into the phone, dropping the _Gàidhlig_ he'd been using for English in his obvious frustration.

_“Christing fuck, Finley. I told you to call me from the goddamned bar-”_

“Well, _Wise-Arse,_ the bar’s a bit crowded right now and-”

She paused. 

The line was dead. 

“Fuckin’ hell.” 

Slamming the phone back onto the receiver, she leaned against the side of the booth and watched her breath fog the glass.

_Wise just hung the fuck up on me, the nit._

_What do I do, now?_

She worked her bullet-struck pendant out from under her coat, turning it over and over in her hand, curiosity and trepidation outweighing the hush order she'd been given.

_Right. I’ll go to Wise’s and bang down his damn door. He can’t hang up on that._

Just as she turned to exit the booth, however, she was blocked by two figures just as tall and broad as she was.

_Valkyries._

Magnhild and Astrid, V’s right and left hand.

“Evenin,’” she said, ignoring the coppery sense of dread that coated her tongue. Astrid stepped into the booth, shuttling Finley out gently with a hand on her shoulder. 

“You didn’t report back in, Fin,” she said as Magnhild began leading the two over to a waiting car. “V’s worried that you might’ve gotten whacked on that last assignment. He’s been worryin’ a lot about you lately, in fact…”

“I’m _fine,”_ Finley grunted, trying to shrug off the manhandling. “V knows I don’t go down easy, aye?”

The two weren’t having it, now grasping Finley’s arms and very nearly dragging her to the car.

“Tell him yourself,” Magnhild said, throwing open the rear door and pushing Finley inside.

The car sped off toward the center of An Rellghan, leaving a stinking skid of rubber in the middle of the street.


End file.
